


Bloom

by mimosa-supernova (FourCatProductions)



Series: Femslash February 2020 [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Femslash February, Fluff and Angst, Older Woman/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22609417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/mimosa-supernova
Summary: As the Civil War rages, something unexpected takes root.
Relationships: Nenya/Idgrod the Younger
Series: Femslash February 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626805
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	Bloom

Winter in Solitude is not so harsh as it is in the Old Holds, but the basement is drafty, and the air that rolls in over the sea has teeth. Nenya finds it funny, in an unfortunate sort of way – the displaced Jarls and their courts, stacked on top of one another in the annals of the Blue Palace like so much unneeded furniture. Living in Falkreath has given her sense of humor a morbid edge, one that the other holds don’t share. She keeps it to herself.

The Palace is lovely, it’s true, and Jarl Elisif has ordered her staff to see to their needs, but it’s not home. Nenya aches for the rich forests and rolling green hills of the lowlands, for the rivers and the sun; for the sturdy wooden longhouse she’d lived in for the last half-century and her own room, with its firepit and alembic and shelves upon shelves of books. When the longing grows strong in the dead of night, it’s easy to forget that the place she’s dreaming of no longer exists. The Jarl’s Hall was burnt to cinder and ash by Ulfric’s men, and even if they do someday return, whatever awaits them will never be the same.

She keeps that to herself, too.

Siddgeir doesn’t say much these days. Oh, he complains when he does, ordering her about and gulping wine like water, but mostly he huddles in his corner of the basement, staring into the fire with hollow eyes. Nenya supposes she ought to be grateful, and part of her is. The other part of her keeps recalling how he’d looked on their frantic carriage ride to Haafingar, struck dumb with disbelief. Like the lost little boy he’d been once all over again, staring at her uncomprehendingly as Dengeir introduced them two decades ago.

_“This is Nenya, my steward. She’ll be looking after you from now on.”_

_“Where are my parents?” Thin shoulder, trembling under her palm. Bony as a bird’s wing._

_“Gone.”_

A difficult boy grown into a difficult man, despite her best efforts, and yet she can’t quite hate him. It is, however, a relief to be free from his fits of temper and relentless demands, and with her newfound freedom, she begins to acquaint herself with their fellow refugees.

The tide of war has turned in Ulfric’s favor in recent months. It was only a matter of time, now that the Dragonborn has taken up his banner, but Falkreath and Morthal had fallen within weeks of each other, and Whiterun only a few months after. Markarth is the lone holdout; its treacherous cliffs and hostile denizens do not make for easy conquering, not this time. In the meantime, there are four courts packed into one palace, and even Jarl Elisif can only do so much to soothe the growing tensions. Jarls Balgruuf and Idgrod bicker daily, though Nenya suspects the latter provokes the former out of boredom. There’s little else to do while the snow piles up around them. So they bicker, and watch, and wait, and Nenya observes. She’s not sure how she feels about Balgruuf yet, but she likes the Ravencrone, her sardonic wit and unwillingness to suffer fools. Out of all of them, though, it’s the daughter she finds herself drawn to.

Idgrod the Younger is the spitting image of her mother in looks, if not in temperament. She’s gentler, less sure of herself but more grounded, and the devotion with which she tends to her younger brother is touching. The boy, Joric, is a swamp-child through and through, pale and haunted, with huge dark eyes ever-fixed on something the rest of them fail to see. Nenya pities him – some humans have the gift of Sight, but few are equipped to handle it, especially so young. He sees things no child should. But Idgrod looks after him, soothes and sings and reads to him to help him sleep, and finally one cold day Nenya puts on her cloak and makes the trek from the palace to the alchemist’s shop in the heart of the city. She returns to find Idgrod sitting on Joric’s cot, wiping the sweat from his brow. Her black hair is greasy and tangled, and the dark circles under her eyes are visible even in the dim lighting. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days. She startles when Nenya hands her the flask.

“What’s this?”

“A tonic.” Nenya nods at Joric. “It’ll give him a dreamless sleep. Not much more than that, unfortunately, but it will help.”

“Will it really?” Gratitude lightens Idgrod’s voice, lifts a fraction of the weight from her shoulders, even as uncertainty flickers in her gaze. “Thank you, but… why?”

“You both seem like you could use some rest,” Nenya says.

Joric is fitful at first, uninterested, but Idgrod coaxes him into drinking, and it’s not long before the lines on his little brow smooth and his breathing evens, eyelashes casting long shadows on his cheeks. Idgrod strokes his hair, expression somewhere between astonished and wistful.

“It’s nothing short of a miracle.” She glances at Nenya. “Mother will be pleased.”

“I’m glad I could help.” Nenya sits on the other side of the cot, watching Idgrod from the corner of her eye. Even exhausted and unwashed, she’s striking. Delicate, but not fragile. “I can sit with him for a while, if you want. Give you a chance to bathe and get some rest.” Too late, she hopes she hasn’t given offense, but Idgrod just blinks at her hopefully.

“Would you? That’s very kind.”

“The problem with looking after others is that sometimes you forget to look after you, too.” Nenya picks up the book at the foot of the bed, turns it over in her hands. A worn copy of _A Children’s Anuad_ stares back. Leant to them by Jarl Elisif, perhaps? Or a token of home, grabbed hastily and tucked away before being cast out? “Go, you look dead on your feet. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Thank you,” Idgrod says fervently, smoothing her skirts as she stands. “You’re Jarl Siddgeir’s steward, aren’t you? Nenya?”

She nods. Idgrod reaches across the cot and puts a cool hand over hers.

“Thank you, Nenya,” she says, and smiles.

She’s gone for some time, and Nenya ends up sitting with Joric well into the evening, reading to him quietly. When she finishes the Anuad, she starts in on the copy of _The Cake and The Diamond: Collected Folk-Tales of Tamriel_ she’d found languishing on one of the dusty shelves. She’s halfway through a tale of a Bosmer archer who shot down the one of the moons when Siddgeir stirs in his chair by the hearth.

“Nenya,” he calls, hoarse and peevish. “Stop making a racket and fetch me a drink.”

She’s tempted to tell him to fetch it himself, but even without a throne, he’s still her Jarl. She pours him a cup of wine, and he sips it slowly, lips pursed. Ever the spoiled boy, Siddgeir – what he really wants is attention, and his aggrieved sigh when she sits back down lingers in her ears.

“What are you doing with Idgrod’s brat?”

“Hush,” she says, not unkindly. The Ravencrone is off speaking with Jarl Elisif and General Tullius, but that doesn’t mean she can’t hear them. “I’m watching over him for a bit.”

“He’s sleeping,” Siddgeir says disdainfully.

“You can listen to me read if you like.”

He waves her away, lip curled, but when she starts up again he shuffles his chair a little closer, wine sloshing in his cup. She finishes the story and flips to another, waiting. A moment’s silence passes. He scowls and looks away.

“Well?”

Nenya hides a smile. She ends up reading almost the entire thing before Idgrod returns, looking refreshed, and Siddgeir keeps his complaints to himself for the rest of the night.

*****

After that, they’re something like friends. At least, Nenya thinks they are. Idgrod always seems to find a smile or a kind word for her, no matter how dreary the day, and she makes for pleasant company. There’s little to do besides wait for news from the front, so they fill the spaces in between with other things – books and magic, alchemy and conversation, swapping stories of home. On milder days, Idgrod takes Joric out for fresh air, sticking to the gardens or more sedate promenades where he won’t be overwhelmed. Sometimes Nenya accompanies them. Most of the time it ends up with the two of them talking while Joric wanders amidst the thistle and barren trees, staring up at the sky.

“I see too little, he sees too much,” Idgrod says on one such occasion. She and Nenya are seated on one of the low stone benches in the garden, watching Joric rattle a snowberry bush with a stick. “Mother’s still confident that my powers will come into their own, but so far…”

“The Sight is a tricky thing to possess,” Nenya agrees, pulling her scarf up around her ears. Not for the first time, she’s grateful her own talents lie in tangible, straight-forward things, the elements and the weather. “It takes most who have it years of practice and study to interpret it, let alone master it. You’ll get there eventually.”

“I hope you’re right.” Idgrod sighs. She’s left her hood down, and her unbound hair glitters, dusted with fresh snow. “But then again, she’s also always said I was destined to take her place as Jarl, and… well.” It comes out sharp, and she punctuates it with a bitter little laugh. “Look how that’s turned out.”

Nenya is a pragmatic sort, not given to sentiment. Change and death are the two inevitabilities of life, and war brings both in spades; wishing it wasn’t so is a wish wasted. And yet, she finds her mouth moving, her lips and tongue shaping words, and together they say, “Ulfric hasn’t won yet.”

Idgrod is quiet for a long moment. “No,” she finally agrees, “not yet,” and her face crumples without warning.

She’s a quiet crier, the kind that’s had years of practice at making her pain smaller than it is, face hidden in her hands and shoulders quivering. “I’m sorry,” she says thickly, followed by a tiny sob. “I just miss my home.”

And then, despite all her years of service and training, despite her instincts urging her to reconsider, shouting at her that she knows better than to take such liberties with someone above her station, Nenya puts her hand on Idgrod’s back. The ridge of her spine curves into Nenya’s palm like it belongs there.

“I miss home too,” she confesses, and then there’s nothing more to say.

After that, the weather gets colder, but the basement feels less lonely. Elisif makes arrangements for Idgrod to use her court wizard’s laboratory, so she can brew tonics for Joric; Nenya reads through the palace library and, for lack of anything to do with her hands, takes up weaving. Balgruuf and the Ravencrone meet with Tullius to discuss strategy; Siddgeir sleeps. The sun rises and sets and rises again, unceasing. Markarth remains unbowed. And in the midst of everything, despite time’s sluggish crawl, spring comes one morning to Solitude.

*****

Someone whispers her name from far away. Nenya’s eyes flutter open.

“Come with me,” Idgrod says, voice low. She’s standing over the cot, fully dressed, and even though Nenya has no idea what time it is, she pushes the quilt aside and unfolds herself into a standing position, joints creaking. Skyrim’s weather hasn’t gotten any kinder in the last fifty years, and her body protests, even as she puts on her cloak.

A chill lingers in the air, but without its former bite, and the sun half-blinds her when they emerge from the palace. She blinks it away, and her vision fills with color.

“The snow’s finally melting.” Idgrod looks as happy as Nenya’s ever seen her, dark eyes sparkling in the morning light. “Look at the garden.”

Seemingly overnight, the snow had begun to dissipate, and from the slushy remains sprouted new life: mountain flowers and dragon’s tongue, crocus and lavender and morning glories, splashes of blue and purple and gold against the stone. Idgrod reaches up and touches a curling vine, pale green leaves no bigger than her thumb. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Nenya feels like she should say something in agreement, but in the face of so much splendor, flowers and sunshine and bright brown eyes, anything she can come up with suddenly seems inadequate. “I’m surprised you didn’t want to wake Joric,” she says instead, aiming for safer ground. “He’s been so restless lately.”

“He needs to sleep. I can walk with him later, if he’s up to it.” Idgrod’s pale cheeks are tinged pink. “I just… wanted you to see it.”

“Oh.” Nenya’s ears are warm. Something stirs within her, an unfurling of petals. “Thank you.”

A moment’s hesitation, and Idgrod moves closer, her arm sliding through Nenya’s. Slow and careful, giving her plenty of time to pull away. She doesn’t.

Solitude is not home. But it is beautiful in the stillness before the day begins, Idgrod’s head on her shoulder and spring blowing in on the breeze. It’s not home, but for now it’s enough, and Nenya closes her eyes, tilting her face to the sun.


End file.
